


Dirty Sexy Poverty

by adiaadore



Category: Inception
Genre: Alternate Universe, Competency Kink, La La Land, M/M, Speedos, WIP, cobb/twitter, haunted (by student loans), love in the time of the digital revolution, rom/com, this is silliness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adiaadore/pseuds/adiaadore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur specializes in a very specific type of unemployment. Unemployment Heist!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to cheer myself up, because I don’t have a job right now. So, instead of dwelling on how disappointing and incompetent being unemployed makes me feel, I thought it would be fun to write a big epic rom-com about (technically) unemployed people who are the opposite. Enter our favorite industrious, resourceful, well-dressed boy. 
> 
> So yes. Here is a story about learning to be your own superhero.
> 
> This has been Britpicked only using the time I spent living there, repeated viewings of Sherlock, and many trips to the internet. Which means that while I have given it the best go I can, I would be over the moon happy for any corrections that I need to make.
> 
> Tangental to this: This is a WIP that is already mapped out to the end, but concrit is always welcome. I am a voracious slut for it. I would also be forever grateful for betas - I have dyslexia, which means proofing takes me an embarrassingly long amount of time. :)

 

 

 

 

\--

 

 

Eames gets his law degree because that is what responsible liars are supposed to do.    
  
Eames gets his law degree in July of 2008, because that is how God gets back at liars.    
  
It’s not that Eames is a bad lawyer, as he tells himself when he is picking up another stack of financial obligations to which he has no answer. For all his faults, a poor work ethic and incompetence have never been among them. He is polite, thoughtful, and well-liked. His problem is that he is on the losing end of a math equation: there are only so many first year associate positions in America, and Eames cannot get one of them.    
  
And the longer he goes without, the more the ever increasing hole in his resume begs the question: _Why does no one want you?_ Older gentlemen run their eyes over his rakish face and and over his increasingly rakish C.V., dotted with volunteer gigs and “freelance” work, and then he never hears from them again. It’s like a series of one-night stands with wrinkled hope.   
  
Over time, Eames gets bolder: if someone comes out and asks why no one will hire him to practice law, he will make meaningful eye contact, smile humbly, and tell them the truth: he has been told, repeatedly, that in these times, sponsoring the employment visa of a foreign national is too expensive.    
  
(Once, he is asked _why he doesn’t just return to his home country to practice law_ , and it’s such a fundamentally ludicrous question that Eames cries the first time he tries to retell it as a hilarious anecdote.)   
  
And this is how Eames finds himself, three years after graduation, driven to the quiet, hilarious desperation of waiting for his name to be called for a Craigslist job ad that had been titled simply, “SALES REP - MUST HAVE GOOD VOICE.” He’s nervously hoping that he gets an interviewer who’s into his face, because that might distract them from the proper disaster that he is below the neck: a jumper that was very nice before it shrunk, ancient messenger bag held together with a roll of brown duck tape, trousers too large for him, and hanging precariously low on his hips. On top of this, he’s wearing, of all stupid things, a Speedo instead of pants because he doesn’t have the spare change to do laundry.    
  
Eames is fairly certain that he has a good voice. Eames is 27 years old and starving to death and the only asset he has left is that he can be fairly certain of most anything, if he needs to be.    
  
A rumpled Italian man unceremoniously opens the door, and calls his name. Eames smiles in acknowledgement, gets up to shake his hand, and pretends he looks like a million quid.   
  


 

\--   
  


 

There are levels of poverty in Southern California, and the caste of Those Without Access To A Vehicle registers only slightly above Those Without Access To A Toilet.  
  
This is a fact Eames becomes intimately reacquianted with as he navigates his way down the sidewalk in Downtown LA, narrowly avoiding puddles of myster-pee, and replaying the last half hour of his life like it’s the animated gif of a car accident.   
  
(“Sorry -- you want me to say _what?_ “ Eames had asked. Not argumentative, just a bit... caught off guard.  
  
“Look, it’s easy,” the man had snapped, as if this was obvious. ”Just make it sound nice, you know? Make people be like, _'Hey, a second ago, I was pissed. But now, I think I might go see what the deal is with this.'_   But if that’s too hard for you-”  
  
“Apologies,” Eames interjected, smiling, “I suppose I had just never realized that this could be an opportunity for me.”  
  
Which was the truth.   
  
He took a breath and started again, enthusiastic, sincere:  
  
 _"Congratulations! You’ve been selected to win a free Apple iP _ \- Ok, I’m sorry,” Eames sputtered, hating himself, “I don’t mean to belabor this point, but I’m not seeing how this is sales job.”  
  
“It is a sales job. You have got to _sell_ the idea that we are giving away free iPads.”   
  
Eames lifted an eyebrow. “ _Are_ we giving away free iPads?”  
  
The man rolled his eyes. “Are you gonna say the thing or not?”   
  
“Hmmm,” Eames thought.  
  
And then (because he just couldn’t help himself) he said, “You know, if you wanted to go... you know, erm, _this route_ , there are actually some better ways to go about it. I could help you find a more legally water-tight business model-”  
  
“ _It’s perfectly water tight!_ ” The man had spat. “You don’t rat on us for not having any iPads, and we don’t rat on you for looking for places to stream episodes of the Glee!”)  
  
This is when Eames notices that he has stopped in the middle of the crosswalk, that honking cars are veering around him with frightening speed, and that he has no real desire to reach the other side. 

 

 

\--   
  


 

When he was a teenager, Eames discovered that former council estate boys who suddenly devote themselves to study and education and bettering their communities, who are charming and well-mannered and have pretty faces can find ways to get their uni paid for. Especially when they have sad stories about backlash from their former bredren, especially when they start taking hits to the face, bags of dog shit to the face.    
  
Half of it was retribution, Eames knew, but the other half was temptation; if Eames fought back, he was one of them again, he would lose everything. It got to the point where walking down the street was spoiling for a fight, so when the time came, he was more than happy to put an ocean between himself and home.   
  
His mum had been nearly apoplectic with ambition when he’d broken the news that he was planning to study in America, visions of Harvard or Yale dancing in her head. Eames had conveniently left out that his internet boyfriend of six months, a bright-eyed American he’d met on makeoutclub.com, was going to school at Pepperdine, and Eames had serious designs on his virtue. He and Matthew only lasted half that long once Eames finally arrived in the states, but he didn’t care. He was suddenly in a country where “public school” had a completely separate meaning, where everyone sort of naively believed that he must be royal, where his geezer tones were positively dulcet. In America, Eames made friends because he was funny, because he had interesting things to say, because he was nice to others.   
  
The overwhelming fairness of it all has spoiled him, he thinks, has set him up for this moment where he is standing in the middle of a busy, filthy LA street, held together by spit and tape, and doing a mental inventory of his empty life and his empty pantry.   
  
And then one of the car horns sounds suspiciously like his own name.    
  
Eames turns around, confused, to see the face of Dom Cobb peering up at him from the driver’s side window of a beat up Pontiac Grand Am.   
  
“Oh,” Eames replies. “Er, Hi. Dom.”   
  
There’s an awkward moment as honking continues around them.    
  
“How’ve you been?” Eames asks.   
  
Cobb squints. “Eames, what are you doing here?”   
  
“Oh, just a job interview.”   
  
Cobb blinks. “No, I meant: what are you doing here, in the _street?_ ”   
  
Eames considers this. “Procrastinating,” he ventures.   
  
“OK,” Cobb nods. “Do you want to get some ice cream?” He asks, carefully, which is when Eames deduces that he probably looks about as nutters as he feels.   
  
Another motorist almost cuts the conversation short, violently swerving around them in a bleating mess of expletives. lt;/span>  
  
Eames shrugs. “You’re buying,” he says, walking over to the passenger door, and getting inside.

 

 

\--   
  
  


Eames knows Cobb best as a party friend from Pepperdine, an academic who took himself too seriously, was friends with everyone and friends with no one. While Eames had spent more than his fair share of weekends sitting on Cobb’s sofa artfully assembling blunts, Eames hasn’t seen him in long time. Probably, he realizes as they ride together in silence, because they haven’t anything in common.    
  
“We don’t have actually have anything in common, do we?” Eames blurts, before he can buckle the safety belt over the body of that realization.    
  
Cobb laughs, because he’s Cobb. “Nope.” He says. “Besides that we’re both apparently free during the day.”   
  
“Ah,” Eames says. “Always good to meet another day walker. You’re not working right now, either?”   
  
“Well, I’m actually working on a lot of stuff.” Cobb says.   
  
“Oh?” Eames feels his throat getting tight, feeling that sick, hateful part of him that hurts whenever he knows he’s about to hear about someone else’s progressing life.   
  
“Yeah,” Cobb says. “My music blog is finally happening.”   
  
_False alarm_ , Eames thinks. “Cheers, mate,” he says. “That’s great.”   
  
“Yeah, we’re definitely going to monetize, soon.” Cobb says. “After we get ice cream, I can show it to you. And you can see my awesome new place.”    
  
Eames nods. He’d forgotten about how easy it was to get sucked into a day with Cobb.    
  


 

\--   
  


 

All things considered, Cobb’s new place _is_ quite brilliant, which makes the fact that Cobb has managed to lock both the ice cream and his keys in the car all the more irritating.   
  
“I don’t suppose you have a spare key,” Eames asks wanly, as Cobb squints at the Ben and Jerry’s sweating in the back seat. He shifts, uncomfortable; they’ve reached the time of the afternoon when one stops feeling the promise of the morning, and starts feeling the guilt of not having anywhere to be.    
  
Cobb shakes his head.    
  
Eames crouches down to take a look at the lock. He pulls at the handle, sticks his fingers in the space between the window and the door, but it’s basically all metallic Greek to him, now. He sighs, trying not to think about the irony of the fact that the only reason why he’s here is because he stopped doing the one thing he needs to be good at the most in this moment.    
  
“Sorry, mate,” Eames says, straightening up. “The only way I know how to crack open these things now is with a brick and too few apologies.”   
  
Cobb kicks one of the tires. “They need to take the stuff they made this car out of and use it to make condoms.”   
  
Eames pulls a face. “That’s the type of suggestion that comes from someone who _never_ uses condoms.”    
  
“I’m tweeting it, anyway.” Cobb says, pulling out his phone.   
  
“No,” Eames says, because this is exactly what is wrong with his generation. “You should _not_ tweet that. BBDO or whomever would turn that into a perfectly hilarious European car advertisement and make millions. Why are you giving away the milk for free?”    
  
Cobb doesn’t put down his phone, but he looks hurt.   
  
“Ha, American cars,” Eames says, chuckling, because this is his life. “Easy to break, a bloody nightmare to break into.” He raps his knuckles on the hood. “Should have gotten yourself a nice, slutty Honda.”     
  
“Maybe you should be nicer to the guy who just bought you ice cream,” Cobb says, texting.   
  
Eames shuts up. He’s all too aware of how devastating one small thing like “having to call a locksmith” or “signing up for a Triple A membership” can be to your whole month. He fishes through his messenger bag; he’d been saving this thing for emergencies, but this is close enough. “Apologies,” he says. “If you’re trying to call Triple A, I think I might have one free visit left on this membership someone traded me in exchange for writing a history paper-”   
  
Cobb’s phone buzzes in his hands. He reads it. “Nah, it’s cool. My roommate is home, he’ll fix it.”   
  
“Your roommate’s home, too?” Eames asks, puzzled. “Does _anyone_ we know have a real job?”   
  
A moment later, a lean, dark-haired guy with young-looking features, wearing a suit, tie, and sunglasses, opens the front door of the house and marches over to the car.    
  
“That’s Arthur,” Cobb says, helpfully.   
  
“Arthur” ignores this announcement as he does a quick, examining spin around the car. He looks graceful and terrifying and Eames suddenly blurts: “Don’t worry if you can’t crack the case, mate. I’ve got a nicked Triple A membership that usually works.”   
  
“This is Eames,” Cobb explains to Arthur. “We went to Pepperdine together.”   
  
“Okay.” Arthur says, not looking up. He pulls a homemade looking hook type deal out of his pocket, and expands it. He slides it against the window and down into crevice of the door, gently feeling around for a moment, before pulling up, hard. They hear the clink of the lock releasing as Arthur grabs the door handle with his other hand, pulling it open.    
  
The whole thing is over in less than 10 seconds.    
  
“Holy shit.” Eames says.   
  
“Thanks, dude.” Cobb says as he clamors into the back seat. “I owe you a mix.”   
  
Arthur smirks before turning on his heel and walking back into the house.   
  
Eames turns to Cobb. “I take it you do this frequently.”    
  
Cobb shakes his head, confused. “No, that was the first time.”   
  
“So your roommate just knows how to break into cars?” Eames asks, impressed.    
  
“He has an internet connection and a lot of time on his hands,” Cobb says, a little annoyed. “Of course, he knows how break into cars.” He shuts the car door.  “Let’s get some spoons and you can help me think of three word reviews for albums.”   
  
“Well, nevertheless,” Eames says, following Cobb up the walk. “I can see why he doesn’t have a job. He has all the personality of a very average eggplant.”    
  
Cobb shrugs. “Arthur specializes in a very specific _type_ of unemployment.”

  


 

\--

 

 

“How can you afford this place?” Eames asks, surveying the neat, stuccoed hallway. It’s not so nice a home where his obvious conclusion is _drug dealer_ , but it’s close.   
  
“I have two roommates,” Cobb explains. “Also, my room is the bathroom.” He throws open a door, revealing a tub stuffed with a duvet and a couple of pillows, and an aging Macbook Pro perched and open on the lid of the toilet.   
  
“And what happens when you need to use the loo?” Eames asks, bemused.  
  
“There’s another one,” Cobb replies, setting the ice cream down on the vanity, next to a turntable that’s plugged into the hairdryer socket.  “But when I broke up with Mal, Arthur and Ariadne offered to let me stay here, basically rent free.”  
  
“Sorry to hear about... Mal,” Eames says, uncomfortable, scratching the back of his neck. He actually has no idea who Mal is. Cobb, he recalls now, has an annoying tendency to assume that everyone he sees knows every detail about his life; Eames blames twitter.  
  
“Yeah. She wanted to take the plunge. I didn’t.” Cobb says forlornly. He lifts up his Macbook, frowning, and tilts it to and fro, hearing a soft slide and _plink_ each time he does. “I think there’s a penny in my laptop,” he says.  
  
“ _Wow_ ,” calls a female voice from across the hall. Eames looks over. A pretty, slight girl is staring pointedly at his sagging trousers, standing in the doorway of a room that is quite frankly full of rubbish. She shakes her head. "You need a belt in the _worst way_."  
  
“Well,” Eames says, bemused, watching her rifle through a box filled with various ropes and cords, “and here I thought I was just being thoroughly eye-fucked.”  
  
She looks up at that. “You made that sound _almost_ classy.”  
  
“Oh, this is Ariadne,” Cobb says, engrossed in his CD drive slot. “Ari, Eames.”    
  
“Charmed,” Eames and Ariadne say at the same time.  
  
“Eames is gay,” Cobb says, looking up suddenly. “You know, just to cut that off at the pass.”  
  
Ariadne rolls her eyes, but she flushes a little. “Well, I'll try and make this less awkward,” she says, pulling what appear to be _belts_ out of the box, “by at least fixing your imminent nudity problem.” She ushers Eames into Cobb’s bathroom and shuts the door.  
  
Ariadne spreads them out on the vanity. “Here are a few I’ve made that could work, but you’d need to try them on.”  
  
Eames looks them over. Despite coming from any number of discarded things - a seat belt, some sort of tent and duct tape combination, a garden hose - they’re surprisingly well made. Eames picks up a striking, brightly colored one that he is pretty sure used to be a child’s backpack. “Is that Bob the Builder?” He asks, delighted, threading it around his hips, securing it with a snap. 

"Heh, yeah."  


Eames does a grateful little turn, trousers staying in their proper place. “Ariadne, it’s as if you loved me before you met me,” he says.     
  
“Yeah, more like I had a big gay belt and no use for it,” Ariadne chuckles, reaching forward and adjusting it for him. “But at least no one can see your speedo, anymore.”   
  
“ _That’s_ what that shiny thing was?” Cobb remarks, from the tub. “I thought it was like, European tailoring.”    
  
“Yeah, why are you wearing a Speedo?” Ariadne asks.   
  
_Because I needed the laundry money for food_ , Eames thinks.   
  
“Because I’m Aquaman, darling,” he says. “But what do _you_ do?”   
  
“Well, I went to design school. Now I make cheap versions of stuff that Arthur needs for his jobs, out of junk that I find.”   
  
“Like ‘Q’, if he was on _Hoarders_ ,” Cobb says.    
  
“Exactly,” Ariadne says. “Wait, shut up.”   
  
“Interesting,” Eames muses. “So, is Arthur some sort of fashionista car thief, or-?”   
  
There’s a knock at the door.    
  
“Everybody’s zipped up,” Cobb calls out. “What?” he says innocently to Eames’ face as the door opens. “It’s a legit concern.”   
  
Arthur stands in the doorway, prim and apparently unphased by the slumber party taking place in the bathroom.  “Hey,” he says to Ariadne. “I’ve got a job, but I need another set of hands. Pretty good pay out. Want to come?”    
  
All Eames hears is _pretty good pay out_.   
  
“What kind of job?” Eames asks.   
  
Ariadne gathers the extra belts and gives Arthur a pat on the arm. “You are a manful tower of competence and I respect you, ” she says as she swiftly exits the bathroom. “But that is absolutely never going to happen, and you cannot make me. Nice to meet you, Eames!” She calls back, and shuts her bedroom door behind her.      
  
“I’ll go,” Eames says.    
  
Arthur turns to Cobb. “I know _you’re_ free.”   
  
“I really can’t,” Cobb says, shaking his head, settling into his tub bed. “I’m doing a podcast soon.”   
  
“ _Seriously?_ ” Eames and Arthur ask, simultaneously.   
  
“I’ve told you all like, four times,” Cobb points out, sighing. “I’m doing three word reviews for albums.”   
  
“Record it later,” Arthur says, getting testy.    
  
“OK, this is my _podcast time_ , Arthur.” Cobb says a little too loud, arms folded. “You need to be more sensitive to the fact that I’m not a very flexible person.”

Arthur heaves a sigh. He turns to Eames, who is smirking, expectant, his hands shoved in his trouser pockets. Arthur’s eyes flick down to the bright yellow of Eames’ belt. He makes a face.   
  
Eames lights up like a grease fire.   
  
“Do _I_ want to come, you mean to ask?” Eames asks.   
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Arthur grits out. “Or would you prefer to hide out in the bathroom and make stuff for the internet?”  
  
“Hey,” Cobb says.  
  
“So, what's the job?” Eames says.   
  
“If I tell you about it now, we won’t have anything to talk about in the car,” Arthur says, turning on his heel. Eames follows him back out the front door, and he can't stop smiling; this week's groceries so close that he can almost taste them.  
  
  


\--   
  


 

It’s a bit tense as Arthur drives them both down Olympic Boulevard, the late afternoon sunlight pouring between the Century City skyscrapers, even as inky rainclouds start to sneak in behind them.    
  
“So,” Eames floats into the silence. “How long have you been involved in a life of crime?”  
  
Arthur side-eyes him. “Alright,” he says, turning the wheel, “I think I need to make a couple of things clear. We are going to do a job for a client. That’s all.”  
  
“A job no one else seems to want to do with you,” Eames points out.   
  
“Because it can be a bit stressful, for them,” Arthur says tightly. “But the job is just- let’s say someone works long hours away from home and they can’t leave. But they remember they left the iron on. Or they need their dog brought home from the vet before it closes. Or they need someone to accept a package because they don’t have time to wait in line at the post office.”  
  
“They could just have it delivered to work,” Eames says.  
  
“What if it’s a knife?” Arthur replies calmly. “Or a dildo?”  
  
“Ah ha,” Eames says, intrigued. “And let me guess, the hook is that none of these people have to give you their house keys?”  
  
Arthur shrugs. “With LA traffic, It’s more efficient for me to just break in.”   
  
“So you’re basically a professionally unemployed person,” Eames replies, twirling a pen. “You’ve somehow managed to turn _unemployed bloke who is available all day to do favors for you_ into a skilled profession.”  
  
“If we’re putting it that way,” Arthur shifts, looking embarrassed.   
  
”Arthur,” Eames purrs, putting the end of the pen in his mouth, “I’m impressed. And you’re doing this all instead of traditional employment, because?”  
  
Arthur thinks about this for several moments, to the point where Eames thinks he may just be ignoring him again. Then he says:  
  
“I don’t interview well.”  
  
And Eames is looking over at him and seeing the hard set of his eyes as he says it, and he’s about to ask _interview for what?_ when Arthur continues:  
  
“So, this client left his girlfriend’s aquarium open this morning, which means that his cat may or may not have have eaten her fish. He wants me to go and assess the situation and if need be, replace the fish before said girlfriend gets home and figures it out. Now, this isn’t the type of job I normally do, and to be honest, it’s way more complicated than I’d like,” but Eames watches the wry tilt of his mouth when he says the word _complicated_ and thinks that’s probably not true.   
  
He leans back in his seat. “So what exactly do you need from me for this little heist? Distractions? Subterfuge? Am I going to be your girl Friday?”   
  
“It’s not a _heist_ ,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes, “it’s just a job.” He turns onto a residential street and parks. “All I need for you to do is keep the cat away from me, and if need be, make sure it doesn’t have any fish in its fur, because I’m allergic to cats.”  
  
“Ah, evidence tampering,” Eames says, grinning. “Very un-heist like.”   
  
Arthur and Eames get out of the car and walk to the front of a four-story apartment building, with a white stucco face and desert landscaping, low-lying cacti and stones artfully arranged where the lawn might be. Arthur’s immediate impression is a frown. Then, he does a once over with his eyes, briefly goes to take a look at the door, and then declares the job a bust.  
  
“So that’s it, then?” Eames says, bewildered. “We failed?”  
  
Arthur shrugs. “I told the client it was possible, based on the Google street view.”  
  
“Why? What’s wrong?”  
  
“Can’t pick the lock, mostly,” Arthur replies, taking out his phone. “Ugh, now I have to figure out what to do with these fish.”  
  
Eames huffs laughter, disbelieving. “What do you mean _you can’t pick the lock?_ ”  
  
Arthur lifts an eyebrow, then looks down to text. “Let me rephrase: I _can_ pick the lock,” he says, “but I won’t.”  
  
“Because?”  
  
“ _Because_ this particular brand of locks would take too long; after about 30 seconds of working at it, I would start to look sketchy. Multiply this by the fact that this stoop is visible to 78 different windows, and we’re unfamiliar faces. This means that we have a very high chance of appearing sketchy to someone, a chance that grows the longer we stay.”  
  
“Furthermore,” Arthur says, continuing to text, “I’m getting the sense that you are a chode. So, if any one of those 78 window dwellers decided to confront us in the, again, _very highly likely event_ that we look sketchy, it’s probable that an argument or violent confrontation would occur between you and them, or, more likely, you and I, which would make us look exponentially more sketchy than before.”  
  
“Darling,” Eames says. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t think being sketchy is as bad as all that.”  
  
“OK, yes,” Arthur says, his eye twitching. “I get what this sounds like. Looking sketchy might not always get the cops called on me, or get me arrested, or charged. But looking sketchy will make the neighbors notice and remember me, which means that I will never be able to do another job on this street or maybe even the whole neighborhood again. Because the nexttime they see me, it will confirm their suspicions, and they _will_ call the cops. And getting arrested, even if you aren’t charged, is unbelievably expensive and time consuming. So yes, Eames, _looking sketchy is always bad_. It’s sacrificing your queen to take a pawn. It’s checkmate, be it in two moves or ten. So in summary,” Arthur finishes the text, puts his phone back in his bag, “we’re GTFO.”  
  
Arthur turns around and heads back. Eames jogs ahead and slides in front of him. “I just think you’re just being a bit pessimistic,” he says.   
  
Arthur shakes his head. “It’s not pessimistic,” he says, “it’s math.”  
  
“But it could be fun,” Eames says.  
  
“Fun is exactly why we _aren’t_ doing it,” Arthur says dryly, stepping around Eames, walking back to the car. “All jobs are allowed a certain amount of “fun” based on how much time it takes and how much I’m getting paid.” Arthur spares a glance over his shoulder. “I call it the sketch axis.”  
  
“Oh my god,” Eames groans, “That’s the only joke you’re going to make today, isn’t it?”  
  
“If I see that a job is above the sketch axis,” Arthur continues, “I don’t do it, and move on. Come on,” Arthur sighs, checking his watch. “I’m already late to go turn off an oven. I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get back to your play date with Cobb.”   
  
Eames stops. “So, you won't be needing me for anything else?  
  
Arthur chuckles. “Uh, _no_ ,” he says. “But you’re welcome to a beer or two from the fridge, for your trouble.”  
  
Eames’ mind is immediately brought back to the state of his own fridge, and the sudden whiplash makes him feel ill.   
  
Then, as though God himself is listening, it starts to rain.   
  
And Eames gets an idea.   
  
He looks over his shoulder, down the street, at a car presently parking near the building. He looks everywhere for _anyone_ who might be returning home. And then, in his second dose of premium luck this afternoon: he spots the postman coming down the sidewalk. He knows he’s only got a few seconds to pull this off. Eames silently thanks God for Speedos, before snatching Arthur’s keys from his fingers, and shoving them down the front of his own trousers.  
  
Arthur is startled but, true to his word, doesn’t start yelling, doesn’t make a violent grab for Eames’ crotch. He scans the area, and sees, as Eames does, a postal worker making his rounds.   
  
“Eames,” he says, relaxed, easy. “Give me the keys.”   
  
Over Arthur’s shoulder, Eames spots a classroom full of school children, holding hands, turning onto the street.   
  
“You want me to dig around in my trousers in front of sprogs?” He says.  
  
Arthur turns around.   
  
“Oh. Shit,” he says, pleasant.  
  
Then, Eames quickly reaches over with one hand, and threads his and Arthur’s fingers together.  Arthur doesn’t flinch or cry out. He regards their hands seriously for several moments, the rain sliding between their palms, making the space between them humid.    
  
 _He’s plotting,_ Eames realizes.   
  
“If you let go of my hand,” Eames says helpfully, “I promise that it will utterly break my heart. In fact, my loud, obnoxious crying and wailing will probably also break windows.”  
  
Arthur looks back up at Eames. He asks, casual as summer. “What are you doing?”  
  
“One thing I’ve noticed while walking around a lot during the day, darling,” Eames explains, “is that when the letter boxes for a block of flats are on the inside of the building, the postmen will have keys to the front door. Also, postal workers rarely interact with the residents, so they don’t have a solid idea about who does and doesn’t belong.”  
  
And on that note, Eames turns around, makes eye contact with the postman approaching the front door to their building, curves his mouth into an _ah!_ sound, as though relieved, and then starts to pull Arthur gently by the hand towards the door.   
  
“He’s a federal employee, and you don’t know him.” Arthur says, calm, even as he’s being led by the hand, the rain coming down on them harder, now. “He lets you in, you commit a crime, he could go to jail. Also, he could be homophobic.” Arthur says pointedly to their hands.  
  
Arthur’s keys are starting to curl uncomfortably under Eames’ balls; he resists the urge to adjust them. “Arthur,” he tuts, drawing him closer, purring, “You’re not even going to entertain the possibility that he might actually find me attractive?”  
  
He does’t wait to hear the answer before he jogging them both up to the front door as the postman walks inside.  Eames grabs the door with his free hand, and flashes a smile.  
  
“Cheers, mate,” Eames says to him, as he casually walks both he and Arthur into the building without a second glance, “It's nasty out there.”   
  
There’s a pause, a moment where Eames thinks he’s home free when a voice calls after them.   
  
“Excuse me,” the postman says, sterner than Eames was expecting.  Eames spins around to look back, and it’s clear that this postal worker is not fucking around. “Do either of you live here?” He asks, as though personally offended by the intrusion. Eames has to hand it to Arthur; he can definitely see how normally this might be the end of the line.  
  
But he turns to Arthur, pulling him close, looking into the murderous calm in his eyes, and says to him low, liquid, “Right, where did you say you we were going to-?”  
  
“Right here, actually,” Arthur blurts, a burst of breath, giving a nod to the first flat on the left, apparently unwilling to give Eames the chance to get to the end of that sentence. Eames turns around, and lets go of Arthur’s hand, caging him up next to the door frame and blocking him from view. Arthur looks back at him, an eye-of-the-hurricaine stare, as if to say _now what, dick face?_

 "Checked your pockets, right?" Eames asks, sounding concerned, tipping his face into Arthur's. "For your keys?"

He stares until Arthur takes the hint, and starts to fumble blindly through his pockets. The postman behind them is going about his business, but he's moving slowly enough where Eames is positive he's listening.

"They're not in my pockets," Arthur replies, dumbly.

"How about your bag?" Eames says, and waits until Arthur does.

"I don't think I have them," he says, his eyes darting to the side, anxiousness starting to leak into his voice.

"Don't worry, darling, I'm sure we'll find them. Maybe you dropped them in here?" Eames says. Then, he hoists his own messenger bag up to waist (and door knob) level, opens it up, and starts to dig loudly through it.  
  
Arthur doesn’t need to be told twice. Behind the cover of Eames' bag, he quietly slides his picks out from his pockets and efficiently works at the lock while Eames looks through his (appropriately disorganized) things, zips and unzips zippers. Eames gets some backup support from the sounds of the letter boxes being opened and shut, but he  takes care to make an appropriate amount of own frustrated noise.  


"You should really think about organizing that thing," Arthur says. Eames glances up and realizes with an unexpected flip of his stomach that Arthur isn't even _looking at the locks_ while his fingers deftly pick them.  
  
“Maybe you should ask your landlord to let you in,” the postman says as he closes the boxes back up, in a tone that suggests that they're fast approaching ridiculous.   
  
Eames is contemplating a inadvisable reply about how the landlord is a homophobe when he hears a small _click_ , and sees Arthur still. Arthur turns his head, and his eyes flick down to Eames’ crotch, then back up. He lifts an eyebrow.

 _Oh_ , Eames thinks. _It's just a hint_.

He reaches into his coat pocket for his own bloody house keys. “Oh,” he laughs, “here they are,” he says, pulling them out and giving them to Arthur. Arthur chuckles the appropriate amount, and mimes putting Eames’ keys into the lock while pushing his way inside. Eames follows in after, and shuts the door behind him.   
  
The apartment is dark, and the sudden sensory deprivation makes him aware of the fact that he’s soaked. He’s utterly failing at shoving the damp hair out of his face with his free hand, his suit is likely well and finally ruined.  
  
The place reeks of dead fish.   
  
“Right, apologies for not letting you in on the plan,” Eames says, sheepish, looking around for a light switch. “But I wasn’t sure how good an actor you were. Meow Meow Meow Meow Meow Meow,” he adds, spotting the shape of a cat traipsing across the counter to greet him. Eames gives its head a scritchy-scratch, avoiding the fish spots, and squints at its tag. “Ha, the cat’s name is Tunasaurus Rex,” he says, which is about when he feels Arthur’s hand wrap around his face, smothering his mouth.   
  
Arthur leans into Eames’ ear. “I’m not going to slam you again against this wall,” he says, quiet. “Because that would make a fuck ton of noise. So instead, we’re going to pretend like I did. OK?”  
  
“I... Right, OK.” Eames says.  
  
So he lets Arthur carefully back him up until he’s flush against the wall; Arthur braces a damp arm across the length of his chest, his eyes fixed on Eames’. It’s that same stare, except now, the fire that has been rumbling just beneath the surface has started to curl its way around the edges. Arthur has a distinct size disadvantage on Eames, besides the fact that he’s doing nothing to protect his lower body, and he smells like strawberries and anxiousness. But Arthur doesn't do anything unless he's _sure_ , Eames knows that now, and the thought that Arthur is sure that he could have Eames on his back if he wanted him there is only being counterbalanced by the ragged edges of the keys poking into his dick.   
  
“OK,” Arthur says, breathing in. “Let me list some of the ways that you did bad just now: You were seen. You were memorable. _Your cock is jangling._ ”  
  
“My cock is incapable of jangling, I’m wearing a Speedo,” Eames says.  
  
 _"Your natural inability to fill out a Speedo is not on trial, here_ ,” Arthur says through gritted teeth. “Also, who even owns a Speedo!?”  
  
“Wha- _I was out of clean underpants_!” Eames hisses, “and I don’t exactly have a lot of money for washing lying around right now. So, I’m sorry that you’re upset about all this, but you can see why I really needed for this thing to go well.”  
  
But Arthur has stopped paying attention. He’s fixated on something outside one of the windows, and he releases his hold on Eames before he walks, then dashes forward to have a closer look.  
  
“What now?” Eames croaks.  
  
“Abort,” Arthur says. “the girlfriend is walking up the sidewalk.”  
  
Eames sighs.   
  
Arthur spins around, all business. “OK, fuck, we’re going to have to climb out a fucking window- _Eames,_ _what the fuck?_ ”  
  
“No one’s aborting anything,” Eames says from the kitchen, sounding tired. He rustles through the cabinets, before finding a kettle, pulling it down, and filling it up from the sink.  
  
“OK, again: what the fuck?” Arthur says. “In fact, I think I’m just going to repeat that question until you answer it: what the fuck what the fuck _what the fuck are you doing-_ ”   
  
“Well, first,” Eames interjects, sticking the kettle on the burner. “We’re going to make the girlfriend some tea.” They both startle at the sound of footsteps approaching the door. “And then we’re going to tell her that her fish are dead.”  
  
“Oh, that’s your plan?” Arthur spits. “That’s your _big sexy creative plan?_ Telling the truth?”  
  
“Well, we can’t just tell the truth.” Eames says patiently over the jangle of keys jostling in the lock. “We have to  _ sell _ it.”   
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expertly beta'd and Britpicked by the very generous asoka and Gloriamundi - they are excellent, all remaining errors are entirely my own.

 

 

 

\--

 

 

There’s a 5 second window -- between when he sees the doorknob turn, and when Hannah walks in -- where Arthur contemplates pretending that he is Eames’ hostage. 

It isn’t that Arthur thinks this idea will work as much as it is a testament to how totally fucked they are right now. And the most annoying thing about it is that, in his own delusional way, Eames is sort of right -- if they’re going to insist on just standing here like a pair of morons, the only smart thing to do is to tell the truth. And Arthur knows that there’s an outside chance that it could turn out fine, that they could have a laugh about it, and just go home without getting paid. But he’d be willing to bet that any woman who could potentially lose her shit over a few fucking dead fish is definitely not going to be happy to see two random guys in her home. Which means waiting around for the police (because running away makes them look guilty), trying to contact the client (who may or may not back him up, depending on how much he stands to gain), and possibly getting arrested (which is the worst thing that can happen to you on a Friday).

Sure enough, as Arthur takes a look around at the walls, he sees that there are tons of pictures of the fish, and no pictures of the boyfriend.

 _LA is so goddamn weird,_ Arthur thinks for the 78th time.

Hannah’s confused (and frankly, unstable looking) face materializes in the doorway as Arthur hears the tinkling of mugs being brought out in the kitchen. And Arthur doesn’t know what Eames has planned, but whatever it is, it can take a back fucking seat.

“Hi, uh, Hannah, is it?” Arthur says, stepping forward, holding out his hand. “Arthur.”

“Uh, hello-” she starts towards Arthur, about to take his hand, when she stops, glancing around. “Wait -- is Robert home?” She doesn’t finish the sentence before the realization that he most definitely _isn’t_ writes itself on her features. She takes a step back, schooling her face into what Arthur suspects is about to become a bleating, defensive rage.

He holds his hands up in an attempt to placate. “We’re not trying to hurt you,” he says.

“What- _what do you mean, you’re not trying to hurt me? Does that mean you MIGHT hurt me?_ ” she screeches in response, and Arthur sees that was the wrong thing to say. And then he realises that nothing he could say in his moment has particularly good odds of working, either, and so instead he freezes, wide-eyed, like an idiot. So it’s a little bit good that Eames decides to finally poke his head around the corner and absorb some of the rage.

What Arthur _doesn’t_ expect is for Eames to somehow completely abate it.

Hannah’s doe-eyed face freezes upon seeing Eames, questioning. “Oh my God,” Eames says to her, fear and empathy scrawled on his face. “Robert didn’t tell you that we were coming, did he?” He turns to Arthur, shaking his head. “Robert is such an inconsiderate asshole, sometimes.” 

“What the fuck?” Hannah says to Eames, but there isn’t a lot of power behind it.

“Robert left Tuna out this morning,” Eames replies. “And Tuna... did what Tuna does best.”

“That smell is my _fish?_ ” Hannah cries, racing over to the (mostly empty) aquarium. “Patches? Clover?” Her eyes fall on a half-consumed clown fish on the floor. “ _Kevin?_ ”

And Arthur is scared, sure, but he doesn’t think his fear is going to withstand the hilarity of _Kevin_ , and so he hangs back and forces his mouth to stay in the frown position while Eames goes over to comfort her.

Eames thoughtfully crouches down beside Kevin’s remains, shaking his head. “Robert sent us to clean up the place before you got home from work so that you wouldn’t have to come home to this. He even had us buy new fish -- as if you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference,” he added, with a roll of his eyes. 

Hannah blinks back tears, confused. “I’m sorry, who _are_ you?”

“Apologies, I’m being very rude,” Eames says with an easy self-deprecation, getting up. “My name is Eames, I’m a lawyer, and Arthur is-”

“I have a PhD in statistics,” Arthur supplies, without thinking.

“Of course,” Eames says to him, with an inscrutable little smile.

“I’m calling Robert,” Hannah says, fumbling with her purse, her hands shaking.

Eames reaches over and takes her by the hand, “Darling, you look frozen,” he says, worriedly, looking into her eyes. “Before you do anything, we need to get you some tea. Would you let me do that for you, please?” he asks, the words a low, rumbling hum in his throat. His brows are knit together, buckling his forehead into chubby little folds; he looks like a Sharpei puppy. And even though Arthur’s not willing to admit it, he knows, in this moment, watching Hannah’s face as she absorbs whatever insane, persuasive energy Eames is able to transfer via his hands, that this is when Eames closes the deal. 

A whistle comes from the kitchen. “Ah,” Eames says, looking pleased, “Kettle’s on!”

 

 

\--

 

 

An hour and a half later, Eames and Hannah are on the couch in front of the aquarium, Eames rubbing soothing circles on Hannah’s back while she weeps over her  third mug of tea. They have already discussed literally the entire histories of Patches, Clover, and Kevin, and are now in the midst of what Arthur believes to be the most ridiculous conversation he has ever had to take seriously, which is why he has banished himself to fish replacement and carcass clean-up duty.

“He loves the cat more than me, doesn’t he?” Hannah sniffles, “Is it because it has red hair? He loves red heads more than me, doesn’t he?”

“Lovely,” Eames says, taking her hand, “for you, he hired a couple of very well educated gentleman to risk certain arrest to try and replace your beloved fish, all so that he wouldn’t have to see you cry. The cat has a joke name. I think he’s made his pussy preferencesclear.”

And Arthur actually looks up at that, because _what the fuck_. But Hannah just giggles a little, nodding in agreement. Arthur waits until she turns around to grab a tissue to blow her nose before he looks Eames dead in the eye and mime vomits all over himself. Eames shoots him a glare that screams _so help me God, I will pull this car over and beat the shit out of you_ and relaxes a fraction of an instant before Hannah turns back around.

“Thank you for taking care of... of the bodies, Arthur,” she says, solemn. “And also for Spot, Dandelion, and Ryan.”

“Are those their names, now?” Eames asks. “You took my suggestions!”

Hannah nods. “I don’t know them very well, yet, but they so far they seem to be very nice fish.”

Arthur shrugs. “It needed to be done.”

“It’s the _least_ we could do,” Eames modifies. “Even if we don’t get paid for our services this go round, we hope you know that we really do care about making sure your home is a comforting place to return to.”

Hannah gasps. “Robert didn’t pay you?”

Eames huffs a laugh, and smooths a strand of hair out of Hannah’s face. “Well, I’m betting he meant for this all to be hush-hush, so now that the jig is up, he probably won’t - but don’t you worry about it, yeah?”

But to Arthur’s great surprise, Hannah shakes her head, defiantly. “No, you should be paid. Robert shouldn’t get off that easily.”

Eames laughs, and then Arthur is pretty sure he fucking _winks_.

Arthur interjects: “Then I just need to take pictures of the... the bodies, as well as the new fish as proof to send to Robert, then he’ll send me payment over Paypal. Also, um,” he says, shifting uncomfortably, “we probably need to make it look like you don’t know. Which means you can’t be... in the pictures.”

“Right,” Eames says, taking Hannah by the hand and helping her off the couch. She flashes a grateful little smile to Eames as Arthur takes pictures on his iPhone.

“Is that Givenchy you have on?” Eames asks her.

“Oh, yes, it’s the new one.” She holds out her wrist so Eames can get a closer smell. He lifts it to his nose thoughtfully, making low humming noises on the exhale. Arthur realizes that he’s staring and decides to check his texts instead.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, flipping through them. He is so motherfucking behind schedule.

“Be sure to mention to Robert that we were also able to expose significant security weaknesses in your flat by breaking into it,” he hears Eames say, because Eames is apparently the type of guy who doesn’t know how to quit while he’s ahead. “I can give you a list, you should bring them up with your landlord when you’re renegotiating your rent. You might not get a lower rate, but he may throw in a security system.”

“OK, we didn’t _break in_ , break in.” Arthur interjects, looking up. “I just picked the lock.”

Hannah frowns. “You picked my lock?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow that’s actually... that’s a skill real people have? Shit,” Hannah says, and Arthur can’t tell if it’s reverence or fear in her voice, and he can’t decide which one he dislikes more.

“It’s really not that strange,” Arthur says. “You can find tutorials all over the internet, and then you just practice a lot, I don’t know why everyone is making such a big deal out of it.”

From the looks on their faces after he says it, Arthur can tell that he was probably a little short just then. But there’s a dull thudding in Arthur’s head and some jobs that it’s looking like he won’t get to and he’s not going to just stand here and share his trade secrets with every weepy mark with a trio of dead fish.

“Right, we should probably be off,” Eames says. “But we should give you our card. Arthur, do you have a card?”

“ _No_.” Arthur says, as that tell-tale little bean-shaped filminess starts to obscure his vision.

“You should really have a card,” Eames admonishes him as he fishes through his messenger bag. “Here: take one of mine,”  he says to Hannah, as he pulls a thick, expensive looking business card out of his bag. “In case something comes up,” he adds, throwing in a wink as he places it in her hand.

“Before we go,” Arthur says, turning to Eames meaningfully, and his head feels like it’s in a vise, “I believe Eames needed to _use the restroom_ , if you don’t mind.”  

 

 

\--

 

 

As they finally leave Hannah’s (Arthur’s keys finally removed from his Speedo), Eames is thrumming with excitement. He’s bursting, he feels ultraviolet, like he’s on a frequency only dogs can hear. He hasn’t felt this way in a long time, and possibly for as long as he has had feelings.

He follows closely at Arthur’s heels as they walk back to his car. “You have to admit,” Eames purrs, “that I was brilliant.”

But Arthur doesn’t say anything. He unlocks the car, gets in, and doesn’t say anything.

Eames gets in the passenger side. “Well, at least, it was hilarious - I mean, fucking hell, _Kevin?_ I almost wet myself, what the fuck even was that.”

Arthur starts the car, and pulls out of his parking spot in silence. And that’s how they drive, all the way back: the lingering drizzle from the rainstorm dusting the windshield, the only noise the intermittent _swipe_ of the wiper.

When they arrive back at the house, Arthur parks, and wordlessly gets out of the car without so much as a glance at Eames. And Eames isn’t one to just _give up_.

“At least we made our money,” he says, “you have to admit that.”

Arthur whips around, his eyes hard.

“Did you know,” Arthur says, his voice dangerously low, “that I actually _lost_ money, today? That’s right,” he says to Eames’ surprise. ”Because we wasted almost two hours on this job, there are three jobs that I did not get to, and combined, they add up to more than what this paid out.”

Arthur takes a step closer. “And this didn’t even go _well,_ Eames. It _still_ might not go well.”

“Yes, it did,” Eames replies, “because I’m awesome.”

“ _Because you were lucky!”_ Arthur yells, incredulous. “You got supremely, stupidly, amazingly lucky in about 6 different ways! How is this not obvious to you?”

Arthur is almost frothing, he’s really upset. Eames figures that that was probably the worst of it, just then. Arthur has probably got it out of his system, now, so he may as well go in for the kill.

“Maybe I make my own luck, darling,” Eames leers.

And this was absolutely not the right thing to say.

Arthur gets up in Eames’ face. “This is not an adorable heist movie! This is a _job._ This is _my_ job! _This is how I survive._ ” He growls, and the expression he’s wearing isn’t even anger so much as it is just helplessness. And Eames doesn’t know what to do with Arthur when he’s this close and looking so small and scared, so instead he just short circuits.

“You’re just angry because I did better than yo-” and Arthur doesn’t even let Eames finish that sentence before he’s aiming his incredibly closed fist directly for Eames’ dick. Eames grunts and doubles over, but he catches a glimpse of Arthur as he stalks back to his house, and slams the door, and he wonders if that was Arthur’s way of telling him that he agrees.

 

 

\--

 

 

The thing Eames hates the most about Koreatown are the police helicopters.

A very close second, however, would be the roosters. These arseholes are presumably being kept around only to be fought at the riotously drunken parties his neighbors host that Eames deeply resents never being invited to, and also to wake him up 7 in the morning. To be honest, Eames doesn’t really understand why a place called Koreatown would be filled with El Salvadorians, and 7 AM isn’t even the correct bloody time for a rooster to be crowing, anyway, because the sun is already fucking up.

But the police helicopters belong to their own special circle of hell. They have the distinction of being both loud and terrifying --  a police helicopter circling in your vicinity means that a panicked criminal is somewhere close and trying desperately to hide, and Eames’ block gets a _lot_ of police helicopters. And these people aren’t fucking around: a cursory glance at the LA crime map for his neighborhood brings up a frankly alarming number of ADWs involving knives.

So it’s always an excellent start to a morning when Eames is woken up by a rooster only to realize that a police helicopter is circling very, very closely overhead and that someone is trying to jimmy open his lock. 

Eames is grabbing the aluminum baseball bat from under his bed ( _never bring a knife to a bat fight_ , he always says) when the door pops open and Arthur stumbles inside.

“Um. Hi.” Arthur says, looking uncomfortable.

“Bleeding Christ, Arthur,” Eames says, dropping the bat to the floor and falling back onto the mattress, pressing the heels of his hand into his eyes. “You could have just bloody knocked.”

“Yeah, I sort of didn’t think you’d let me in.” Arthur says. “I also didn’t think you’d be awake.”

“Yes, well, it isn’t exactly peaceful in here, is it?” Eames says, gesturing to the ambient noise, now further augmented by music from a nearby radio. “Combined with the sound of your talented little fingers working open my door, I thought for certain that I was a dead man. Though I’m still not convinced that isn’t the case,” he adds, folding his arms.

Arthur sighs and looks for a moment like he might just chicken out.

“Right, so, I sort of need you... for a job.” He sounds like the words physically cause him pain. Though admittedly, it’s a very good look on him.

“Oh _ho ho ho_ ,” Eames crows, smug. “Is that so? Seems the job hunter has become the job _hunted._ ”

“Well, someone requested you specifically.” Arthur says.

“Really?” Eames yawns, pleased and sleepy. “And it’s for now, I’m assuming?”

“At 1. But I’m not interrupting my day to come back to Koreatown to get your ass, so until then, you’re going to sit quietly while I do my other jobs and not... fuck things up.” 

Eames scratches his face. He supposes that this is as close to a mea culpa as he’s going to get from Arthur for the bollocks thrashing he dished out yesterday, and he’s especially enamoured of the idea of keeping his mobile from being shut off.

“What makes you think I’ll say yes?” Eames gloats, because he’s going to milk this moment, thanks.

“Because there’s a cockroach the size of a Chicken McNugget crawling across your floor right now,” Arthur says calmly. “And I highly doubt you want to resort to eating it.”

“Well,” Eames says, jumping out of bed, because his home is getting more horrifying by the minute. “How could I possibly say no when you’ve already gone to all this trouble?” He pulls on some trousers. “Bit creepy that you figured out where I live, though.”

“Oh my God,” Arthur says, already turning to walk back out the door. “Oh my God, right now. It’s like none of you have ever heard of the internet.”

 

 

\--

 

 

So Eames rides along with Arthur and watches, a bit fascinated, as Arthur runs what is essentially an adorable little breaking and entering enterprise.

Mornings, he learns, are the busiest part of Arthur’s day: “Most of my business comes in at oh shit o’ clock,” Arthur explains, “which is that first hour after you’re too far into your morning commute to turn back, when you suddenly realize that thing you forgot, and you freak the fuck out.”

And just like that, between the hour of 8:45 and 9:45, Arthur’s jobs come in a steady stream. He gets them almost exclusively via text message and gchat: an unfed dog here, a forgotten important presentation there. Arthur is efficient: he prioritizes his jobs by distance and urgency, maximizing his income by minimizing his driving time and spending no longer than 15 minutes at each location (usually less). He is a tactical thinker who also has big picture sensibilities: he has no problem with telling a client their request doesn’t make financial sense for him to complete, and thus, he’s often able to shrewdly negotiate his way into a higher pay out. He also rejects a few jobs outright for being too risky, even when one scrambling client offers him double his rate.

The highlight of Eames’ day comes when Arthur is unexpectedly called to move a client’s car before it receives a parking ticket. After Arthur breaks in, unlocks the steering wheel, and puts the car in neutral, he has Eames push (and stop traffic) while Arthur steers the car to the other side of the street.

“You have to admit.” Eames says, catching his breath. “I was completely reliable and competent just now.”

“Yeah, we’re a regular Thelma and Louise, Eames.” Arthur deadpans.

“Well, no,” Eames says, “probably more like Oliver and the Artful Dodger. Or the Artful Dodger and Fagin.”

“I’m not fucking _Fagin_.” Arthur scoffs.

“Not _yet_ ,” Eames smirks. 

As soon as Arthur completes a gig, he sends a picture of whatever needed doing as proof. He will then patiently wait up to five minutes (during which he might help himself to a Red Bull or a few minutes of The Price is Right) for his phone to ping him with the Paypal payment notification. If he does not receive payment in that time, he will promptly undo the thing he came to do and leave. Or, in the case of things that cannot be undone, he will find some other way to communicate his displeasure: at one home, Eames watches in mild amusement while Arthur takes an entire case of diet coke and shoves it in a freezer.

“That’s nothing,” he says, getting back in the car. “Once, I took out every wine glass in someone’s cabinet, turned them upside down, and stacked them into a pyramid.”

“That actually sounds rather charming.”

Arthur smirks. “I put it behind the front door.”

“Ah,” Eames replies.

“It was the end of the day,” he shrugs, “and a particularly bullshit client.”

“Yes, I’m getting the sense that you’re the man one is supplied with if one has somehow come across a monkey’s paw and uses it to wish for a freelance personal assistant,” Eames replies.

“I’m not a _freelance personal assistant_ ,” Arthur spits, “I’m the guy you text in an emergency when when you realize you’ve left your switched-on iron face down on your bed. Waiting around for some dipshit to pay costs me money. Clients either learn the rules, or I send them messages until they do.”

“Oh, so like the mob,” Eames supplies.

“Yes,” Arthur says, brightly. “Like the mob.”

“I’ll admit I’m a bit surprised you’d result to vandalism,” Eames drawls, “Considering how averse you were to being arrested yesterday.”

Arthur huffs a mirthless little laugh as they turn back onto Santa Monica.

“Pro-tip: if you aren’t calling the LAPD about suspicious activity _in progress,_ they aren’t coming _._ Period. Half the time when you dial 911 in LA, you get put on hold, anyway.”

Eames scoffs. “You do _not._ ”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “You don’t believe me,” he tosses his phone to Eames. “Try it.”

Eames stares at the phone, and then at Arthur; his features look relaxed, but his eyes are glittering with either amusement or self-satisfaction, Eames can’t tell.

He hands the phone back to Arthur. “I’ll take your word for it. Since you’re that sure it would happen.”

“No,” Arthur says, smirking. “But I _was_ that sure you wouldn’t do it.”

And that’s a dare if Eames has ever heard one. “Well,” he says, as he snatches the phone back out of Arthur’s hand, “it’s difficult to ever really be sure about people now, isn’t it-”

Arthur slams on the brakes, startling the fuck out of Eames and sending Arthur’s phone flying from his fingertips; it hits the dash and lands on the floor of the car.

Eames looks up and sees that they’re at a red light.

“People are messy, sure.” Arthur says, grinning, and reaching between Eames’ feet to pick up his phone. “But physics is pretty cut and dried.”

 

 

\--

 

 

As the morning bleeds into afternoon, much of the novelty of the operation wears off. The problem, Eames suspects, is that Arthur has become _too_ good at this, having somehow taken something as interesting as professional breaking and entering and made it routine. Even Arthur, it seems, is a bit over it: he’s at his happiest during that 5 seconds it takes for him to work through the puzzle of how to break into a place, and tends to sour shortly after.

“Ever think about changing things up?” Eames suggests, as he waits for Arthur punch the code into a garage opener. “Maybe trying to get in through the window, instead?”

“First of all, shut up,” Arthur replies evenly, “Secondly, the only people who go through windows are firemen, dumbasses who lock their kids inside, and criminals, all of which looks sketchy, and looking-”

“We did that part already,” Eames says, cutting him off.

“To be honest, I’m glad this one is easy,” Arthur says, checking his watch. “As it’s almost 1.”

“Oh, right,” Eames perks up, admittedly having forgotten that this was the reason for his accompanying Arthur at all. “And what’s that job going to entail, exactly?”

Arthur sighs. “We’re having lunch with Hannah’s boyfriend.”

“Right, that doesn’t sound like a job,” Eames says, “that sounds like a _lunch._ ”

“Do you want your free lunch, or not?” Arthur snaps.

 

 

\--

 

 

In LA, as Arthur tells Eames (as though he doesn’t bloody know already), there’s a type of person known as “Connections Guy.”

In a town where nothing comes for free, where every little favor is the result of years of toil, Connections Guy is a total slag with his offers to help you out. Connections Guy will do this within hours, sometimes even of minutes of meeting you, offering to do things that are vastly disproportionate to how well he knows you.

This is because Connections Guy has no inherent value. He is a shameless friend collector who thinks he has value because of his quantity of friends, and uses this quantity of friends to gain more friends. Connections Guy thinks his value is that he knows people; he is, at his core, a narcissist.

Connections Guy is not nearly as beloved as he thinks he is, because he is not beloved at all. Ironically enough, however, Connections Guy does have the power to bring people together... through a mutual hatred of Connections Guy.

Robert Fischer Jr. is the son of the late, great agent Robert Fischer Sr., a man so terrifying that, as rumor had it, he might have survived the heart attack that resulted in his demise had his assistants correctly interpreted his bleating rage.

Robert had not intended to break up Fischer Morrow Entertainment, but his youth and overall asshattery as President resulted in a power vacuum and a massive civil war. Neither side viewed Robert as the heir apparent, and the company was broken apart and sold off. Now, Robert is mostly just a full-time Connections Guy: too many personality flaws to hold down a job, too much money to care.

At 1 PM sharp, they spot Robert holding court on the sunny open patio of Hamburger Mary’s in West Hollywood; he’s looking popped-collar autocratic and sipping on a spiked shirley temple, because why not.

“Didn’t realize you’d joined the team,” Arthur says, pulling up a chair across from Robert, with a nod at the large rainbow flag billowing above the entrance. Eames briefly shoots Arthur a questioning glance, but he abandons it.

“I missed you, too,” Robert says seriously, sucking a little too emphatically on his straw. “No, before Hannah, I came here for the lunch hour fag hag run off, but I got hooked on the sliders.”

“Robert, this is Eames,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes.

“Fag hag run off?” Eame asks, carefully.

“Oh, yeah,” Robert replies, lazily scanning his periphery. “They usually wolf their food down fast enough where there’s still time for a bathroom blow job before they have to go back to the office. Plus, the great thing about a place like this is that they’re sort of used to people fucking back there.”

Eames opens his mouth, but Arthur cuts him off at the pass. “Robert, I’m curious as to why you say you have a job for us when you clearly don’t appear to have a job yourself.”

Eames makes a face at Arthur, but he’s upstaged by Robert’s. “ _Goodness,_ ” he says, tsking, “unemployed people. So judgmental of each other. But as a matter of a fact, Arthur, I do have a job, now. I’m Peter Browning’s assistant.”

Arthur snickers. “You’re kidding.”

“He has _clout_ ,” Robert snaps, defensive, “following him to CAA puts me in a strategically strong position!”

A tan gentleman in very shiny pants interrupts to drop off some potato skins.

“But that’s besides the point,” Robert says, sticking a bit of one in his mouth, “I’m in the market right now not only for a new business, but also for a way to _actually_ be as Godlike in my capacity as an assistant as I am expected to be. So: I’d like to help you expand your enterprise. Not just in size, but in the types of problems you two address.”

“OK, I’m going stop you right there.” Arthur says. “There is no _you_ _two_. That was a one time thing.”

Robert picks up a french fry, lifting his eyebrows regally. “Arthur, I hired you to replace some fish before my girlfriend found out. What you did instead was replace some fish _after_ my girlfriend found out. Through some crazy voodoo magic _this_ one over here managed to perform,” he says, pointing the fry at Eames, “it miraculously worked out. But as far as I’m concerned right now, there’s only _one_ of you, plus a cleaning crew.”

Arthur stares at him, hard.

“So anyway,” Robert says, with a roll of his eyes. “Peter Browning, like many men of his station, is a very rich and terrible person.”

“Terrible?” Eames asks.

“He actually lives in a gated community _within_ a gated community,” Robert says.

“Why didn’t he just dig a moat?” Arthur deadpans.

“Couldn’t get a permit for the snakes,” Robert replies seriously, sipping his drink. “But you don’t get to Peter’s level unless you have a really dicked-up personal life. And there are a _lot_ of people at Peter’s level, who fuck shit up at home because they’re stuck at their jobs.”

“Doesn’t Peter Browning have a team of assistants to handle that kind of thing?” Arthur asks, squinting.

“Yeah, but we don’t have the time, or frankly the skills, to carry out the really ethically and morally ambiguous stuff. That’s where you two come in.”

Arthur sighs. Then, to Eames’ surprise, he says, “How ‘ethically and morally ambiguous’ are we talking, here?”

But to be honest, he’s starting to look a bit... peaky. He’s shifting in his seat a lot, and he’s tilting his head away from the light as much as possible, even though he’s in sunglasses.

“The way I’m picturing it, you’re the people I -- or any other assistant -- would call if my boss needed to make it look like he went to his kid’s soccer game. If he needed to hide the evidence of his mistress while his wife was in the house. Because even if _you_ fail at the stealth component,” he says pointedly to Arthur, “You’ve got the other one here to do emotional damage control.”

“I do emotional damage _control_?” Eames says, “Robbie, that’s the nicest thing any bloke has ever said to me in a gay bar.”

“Gay _hamburger establishment_ ,” Robert corrects.

“I don’t know about this.” Arthur says, skeptical. Eames sees him wince. “Those kinds of things are not as cost effective as you’d think to carry off.”

Eames notices that Arthur very pointedly doesn’t say _they’re also a bit icky._

 __“What, are you opposed to expanding your business?” Robert scoffs.

“Robert, I am 100,000 dollars in student loan debt.” Arthur almost yells, scrunching up his face. “Believe me. I am not in the slightest opposed to expanding my business. But what I _am_ opposed to is expanding it with- with _this guy I just fucking met_ ,” he’s yelling now, pointing to Eames,“and a person who fucks people in restaurant bathrooms.”

And then Arthur shuts his eyes, and buries his head in his arms.

Their server chooses this moment to come back with their drinks. There’s an awkward couple of seconds where everyone sort of stares at Arthur, waiting for him to explain himself, but that explanation doesn’t come.

“Are you throwing a fit?” Robert asks, chewing.

“ _No_ ,” Arthur says, from the cradle of his arms.

“OK,” Eames says, patiently. ”Then what hurts?”

Robert snaps his fingers at Eames, the sound eliciting a slight groan from Arthur. “See? This is why you’re so good.”

“I need to go home,” Arthur slurs to Eames, “Like, right now. Can you drive stick?”

“Yes,” Eames replies easily, getting up from his stool, and moving to pull Arthur out of his, “but you’re going to have to tell me how to do it.”

 

 

\--

 

 

During the drive, Eames somehow manages to fish out Arthur’s Excedrin Migraine, which almost makes up for the fact that he stalls out the car seven times. He even manages to park in the street out front, in a position Arthur would charitably describe as “diagonal.”

“Are you sure you don’t need help, darling?” Eames asks as he pulls Arthur out of his own car.

“Shut up,” Arthur says, brushing him off with a wave.

But Eames waits, hands in his pockets, and watches thoughtfully as Arthur had stumbles up the front walk and through the door. Arthur climbs into bed. He can still see Eames from the window, and he watches him stand on the sidewalk for a minute before the anticipation of waiting for him to leave gets to be too much, and he finally looks away.

 

 

\--

 

 

Much later, in the quiet of the night, Arthur admits to himself what Robert has already so tactfully pointed out: that he has, as of late, become a liability. Arthur also allows himself to accept that he has a finite number of options for eliminating that liability. He could either stop the migraines (which he can’t) or he can bring a back-up plan, of which his options are approximately one.

Moreover, Arthur deduces, if he’s bringing in Eames, the only cost effective way to do so is to take jobs with better pay-outs. Which means taking jobs with higher stakes.

 _We’ll try it_ , he thinks, hugging his knees to his chest. _We’ll just try it out._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, thanks to asoka for suggesting the names of the replacement fish. :)


End file.
